


Five Times Sam Walked Away

by fannishliss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>
    <strong>Sometimes, Sam walks for the right reasons.</strong>
  </em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sam Walked Away

**Author's Note:**

> Specific quotations from "Scarecrow."  Pre-Stanford timeline suggested by John's Journal (except for Dean's GED, which contradicts the Journal).

**Title: Five Times Sam Walked Away  
** Author: [](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/profile)[**fannishliss**](http://fannishliss.livejournal.com/)  
Pairings/Characters: Sam and Dean, no pairing  
Rating: PG-13 for language  
Category: Gen  
Word Count: 1400 words  
Spoilers: through 5.2.

**Summary:** __ **Sometimes, Sam walks for the right reasons.**  
  
~*O*~

**Five Times Sam walked Away.**  
  
 **.one.**

“Dude, you are such a freakin girl,” Dean muttered, but it was only to cover up his own nerves.

Sam was in a tux, a goddamn rented tux, can you believe that shit?  And Dean was about to hand over the keys to his freakin car, and Sam had better believe he was driving sober, and returning that car in pristine condition.

Sam rolled his eyes as Dean one last time straightened his little brother’s tie (not so little any more) and adjusted his boutonniere.

Things had been strained between them, to say the least, since Sam had announced his intentions of going to Stanford. He had thrown down the fat, creamy envelope with an undeniable challenge, and Dean had nearly thrown a punch, but behind that defiant jaw there was still the little kid Dean had spent his life protecting, so there was a bit of a conflict there.

At least Dad had thrown in the towel and let Sam finish high school in peace – a year late, with all the craziness of his transcripts – but at least a little more formal than the GED Dean had completed only months ago.

Sam shrugged Dean off with a scowl as Dean patted his jacket shoulders one last time.  
“Quit it.  Mother hen,”  Sam muttered.

“You bring her back in one piece, right,”  Dean said, and Sam nodded, already ducking out the door.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Dean shouted, and Sam gave him the finger, but at least he grinned.  Little brother folded his ginormous self into the driver’s seat and carefully rolled away down the rough gravel driveway.

“Yeah.  A little peace and quiet for a change,” Dean said. He went and got a beer, and plopped down on the less sprung side of the sofa, and he watched old movies on TV till he fell asleep.

**.two.**

The ride to the bus station wasn’t quiet.  Yeah, it was grim, but it was loud. Dean had never been so thankful for Lemmy’s garbled shout.  You had crank it just to get the faintest inkling of what he was saying.  So “Ace of Spades” was pretty much Dean’s farewell to Sammy. 

He totally didn’t feel like he’d had some vital organ torn out when Sammy stepped up onto the bus. It was Sam’s decision, god damn it, and if he wanted to walk away from everything his family fought for, then so be it. Dean fueled his slow-burning anger and let it cauterize the wound.  Dean still had the Hunt, he was helping out Dad, there were chicks, and good times, and rock and roll. He’d be just fine.

God damn it, this sun was bright.  Dean slipped on his shades and gritted his teeth as he drove away.

**.three.**

If Sam is going to stand there all tall and broad on the side of the road, with his backpack all threatening like he can just pick it up and scram, then fine.  Dean can drive away.  So he does. He leaves his cell phone on though.  And waits for the call.  And then makes it himself.

“You gotta do your own thing. You gotta live your own life.  I’m proud of you, Sammy.”

And then he’s gotta live it down when Sam breezes back in the nick of time and pulls his hogtied ass out of the fire.  He can live with that though.

**.four.**  
  
Dean wasn’t there for this one, but he can picture it.  Has pictured it, so many countless times.

It’s funny about Hell.  He really has no idea how long he was there, right? Hell’s not a place, and time’s not time, not when you’re on the rack.  And all the shit they did to him?  His body didn’t remember it.  Hell, his body has never felt this good, even back when he was a kid—already half-killed three times, and that was only before he turned twenty-five.

When he first got back, it was just like a dream – little snips and snatches and that horrible feeling like you dreamed something awful, but now it’s daylight. The problem was, the longer he was back, the more he remembered – like, every night, those awful nightmares came a little bit clearer – every morning, things were a little bit sharper, and this body, that had never, ever been on the rack, that Alastair had never had the tiniest taste of– his clean new body woke up tensed, shock full of adrenaline, ready to kick some serious ass or run as far and fast as breath would take it.

So yeah, eventually Dean remembered it all pretty god damned clearly, rehearsing it every night in his dreams, till finally Castiel cottoned on, and showed up to give him some blessed relief. Not quick enough though, that he hadn’t already seen it a thousand times:

_Sammy digging a shallow grave out in the middle of nowhere.  Laying the bloody, ribboned body in a pinewood box, levering it down into the hole.  Deep enough to keep the smell from drawing vermin, but shallow enough so that there was a chance ... the lid laid closed but not nailed on.  Sammy shovelling dirt down onto the box, shovelling, shovelling, tears and snot streaming down his grimy face, till the shovelling was done.  Walking away with the shovel in his hand, amulet tucked inside his shirt._  
  
 **.five.**

Sammy getting into that camper truck is just about the last thing Dean wants to see right now, but what surprises him is the big sigh of relief that wells up and releases from inside him. Sam is better off out of the action for a bit.  Sam thinks so, and Dean agrees. He just needs a little time to get his head back in the game. Get the demon blood thing squared away.

Dean knows Sam is sorry, but he can’t just sit back and not really fucking resent how Sam punched him in the face, threw him to the floor, and throttled him till he saw black, then walked out and left him lying there in the room where he’d lain with a demon. Dean knows they’ve both got a hand in the Apocalypse – but Hell, what chance had they stood against the Demons and the Angels’ freaking schemes and whatnot.  

Sam hasn’t even acknowledged Dean’s voicemail, the one where he took it all back. But Dean guesses that’s fair.  You say some shit, you can’t just take it back like a nine year old. You meant it, right?  You gotta live it down.

So Sam walks away, and Dean has to let him.  But sometimes, Sam walks for the right reasons.  And this looks like one of those times.  
 ****  
.... and one time he didn’t.

Dean had a plan. He did.  Just being hogtied and surrounded by evil was slowing that plan down a mite. He heard a noise behind him, the slight metallic click of a Buck knife blade locking into place, and just as his body panicked (knife behind him, fucking shit!) his rearbrain recognized the sound he’s heard a thousand times in life, and his forebrain screamed out _Sam_ in a chorus that would make Cas’s garrison weep with envy.

“Oh! Oh, I take everything back I said. I’m so happy to see you. Come on. How’d you get here?”

Sam grinned, and his grin was a joy to see.  “I stole a car.”

“Ha! That’s my boy!” Dean said, and Sam locked hands with him and pulled him to his feet.

Dean clapped him on the shoulder, just for a second. Sam was strong and solid, really there, ready to go, and something in Dean just slid home. These weeks without Sam, he’d been compensating behind him and slightly to his right, and now that void was filled up again – it was like a part of him was whole again, a sense he couldn’t even put a name to.

All in a glance was all he needed to say: _hey Sammy you good?_

And Sam’s reply was his smirk, quick nod, and the readiness in his shoulders, the planting of his feet.

So Dean leaned down and drew the knife from his ankle holster, gave it to Sam antler handle first, and it fit in Sam’s hand like it was made for him, and maybe it was. Sam had a shotgun he handed to Dean, along with a bandolier of shells.

Locked and loaded, shoulder to shoulder, the Winchester brothers were ready. 

~*O*~  
Notes: Specific quotations from "Scarecrow."  Pre-Stanford timeline suggested by John's Journal (except for Dean's GED, which contradicts the Journal).  



End file.
